


Split Run

by Argyle



Category: Mad Men
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discretion is the better part of valour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Split Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HectorRashbaum (FifteenDozenTimes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FifteenDozenTimes/gifts).



> Set between s1 and s2.

"Let me explain what is happening to the film industry," the guy said. He was swaying a bit, but that could only be expected: he'd likely crawled up from the mailroom or collections or _radio_ or god knew what other forsaken department had been so sanctimoniously called in to liven up the party this year. Sure, this one might've mentioned where he was from. But it was hard to hear over the dance record Kinsey was spinning.

Between here and there, after fifteen minutes against the wall, Salvatore didn't give a damn if the guy was from the moon--his fourth cup of egg nog couldn't've gone down any smoother had it been water off a duck's feathery ass. "Let me explain..."

Salvatore huffed out a sigh. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

" _Film_. Y'know. The pictures. You like Kate Hepburn?"

"No."

"What about t'other one. Tracy."

"Overplayed."

The guy smiled. "Yeah," he said. Then his too-bright eyes focused on something over Salvatore's shoulder. It was Ken, rolling back on his heels and loosening his tie: about as welcome a sight as the Eleventh Wonder. "What about you? What d'you think?"

"Me!" Ken laughed. "Cook's night off. No abstract reasoning allowed. But from what I hear, they're about to open the bottle of '37 tawny port Pete Campbell filched from Duck's cabinet last week. What say you go investigate?"

The guy didn't need to be told twice.

"My _god_ ," Salvatore drawled when he'd gone, stifling any remaining anxiety. "Are you auditioning to be a Knight in Shining Armor, or what?"

"You looked like you were drowning," said Ken. "Not exactly in the spirit of the season."

"Speaking of which..."

Ken snorted. "Do you honestly think Campbell would have the guts to go against Duck?"

"You never know. Poor boy might've enlisted the aid of a higher power."

"Draper?"

"I was imagining someone slightly more rotund," Salvatore said, and drained his glass. Then he gestured across the office to where Cooper himself sat perched on the edge of a desk, his over-furred Santa Claus hat slipping from his damp brow, with one brunette (Cindy) and one blond (Dolores) planted on each knee.

"That bastard," Ken muttered appreciatively.

Salvatore shrugged, his gaze moving away again. Ken's cheeks were ruddier than usual, and a dislodged lock of hair fell rakishly over his eyes, but the flesh at his throat, hemmed by his pale parted collar, was taut and smooth. Salvatore blinked. "There isn't a soul here who wouldn't do the same if it meant getting a Christmas bonus."

"You're not kidding."

"But what about you? Any plans for the holiday? A trip to somewhere warmer, perhaps?"

"Nothing so unusual. My folks are down from Vermont." Ken arched a brow. "You'd think that by now I'd have some say in where and when we meet."

"You don't want to see them?"

"Let's just say I don't want them to get too comfortable. When I moved down, my dad convinced himself I was living in squalor. Y'know. Rats, roaches. The whole bit. Like in Melville." Ken shook his head, then continued, "When he and my mom saw my flat--Well. Surprised would be the understatement of the year. Now Mom has delusions of Chanel and Tiffany, all of it there for the taking. Hey, you see your mom a lot?"

Salvatore arched a brow. "Let's just say I _hear_ from her often."

"I got you." Ken nodded with a grin, took a step closer, and clasped Salvatore on the wrist. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His hand was warm. Salvatore felt his own pulse against the pad of Ken's thumb, and he let out a little gasp, so light as to be nigh unrecognizable, but to be sure he forced his lungs full, feigning a great, shaking yawn. "Christ!" he laughed, pulling back. "You'd think I'd never been out past ten before!"

"Not going to turn into a pumpkin, I hope," said Ken, eyeing Salvatore's glass. "Need another?"

"That would be divine."

In the lull, Salvatore made his way to a window, circling Kinsey and Crane and a few of the girls, and took a long moment to inspect his reflection.

Not bad.

Just the same, he loosened his tie and popped his top shirt button, then looked below. The street bustled, brimmed. Somewhere--Well. He knew where. And so out beyond him there was a bright if tiny flat where Kitty was reading or sewing or savoring the last drops of a bottle of red, but not waiting up for him. "It's just an office party, darling. I'm obligated. And it's not like you bought a new dress..."

How her face had fallen at his flippancy. Though only for a moment. That's how it was: they understood one another.

"Heya, big guy." Ken passed over a double Scotch, and sipped his own before continuing, "What I'd really like--" He paused. "Just some time to myself, you know? It can be hard to concentrate."

"Hmm. And what so demands your attention?" asked Salvatore. He forced his free hand still. "Are you working on a new story?"

Ken sniffed, looking momentarily taken aback. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. That's it exactly."

"What is it about?"

"It's going to sound stupid."

"It won't."

Ken swirled his drink, clinking the ice against the thin, condensation-dappled glass, and then shrugged. "All right. It's sort of a redemption piece. You read much Hemmingway?"

"Yes," Salvatore lied. "Of course."

"Well, I don't. Probably shouldn't admit it, but there you go. Anyway, it's about a man who lost everything in the crash of '29. Big banker type. But the thing is, he was self-made. His father was a shipbuilder, and he was too--at least until he was old enough to leave home." Ken looked up. "You with me?"

Salvatore nodded.

"So he decides to go back to his roots. Scrounges up the last of his money and moves his family to Maine, his kids and his wife. He'd been promised a job in the yards."

"And he succeeds?"

"Not in the slightest. The job never really existed. He just imagined it."

"Oh," said Salvatore. He took a drink, savoring the slow burn of whisky down his throat and into his belly. But he was nearly out. "Well, it _sounds_ great."

Ken hesitated. "Still have some kinks to work out," he said. "Whenever I have a free moment, I--Er. I try to cut away some gristle."

"You have it here?"

"No," said Ken. And then, "Well. Yeah. But don't tell Paul. I'd never hear the end."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Salvatore said. "Say, you wouldn't mind--"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Feeling suddenly and quite irrationally that they were participants in something subversive and strange, he followed Ken to his office.

Salvatore sucked in a breath.

Of course it was the same. The furniture was the same, as was the layout: he'd seen it all a thousand times. But the shadows cast from errant exterior light made the room appear sharp and fully occupied. As though intruders themselves, they stood together for several moments, but then Ken made a beeline for the desk, and flicking on the lamp almost as an afterthought, he began to rummage through the top drawer. "Shut the door, would you? I can't even hear myself think. Let's see... Aha!" He held up a thin manuscript. "Future fishwrap, in the flesh."

Salvatore stared down at the cover page. "'The Job.'"

"Working title," said Ken. "Don't hold me to it."

"How long have you been writing this?"

"Six months."

"Oh. Seems you've still a ways--That is to say, it's succinct."

"Like Hemmingway." Ken steered Salvatore to the sofa, but didn't take a seat beside him. "Allow me to top you off."

Salvatore nodded. "Thanks," he said, and began thumbing though the story. He'd meant what he said: it _sounded_ quite good. But as he stared down, eyes blurring between the lines, he suspected the charm was in the telling, jumbled and airy.

"Well?"

 _The job never existed. It was all in his head._

"I'm getting married," Salvatore laughed suddenly, carelessly, not at all as though it was the first time he'd said it aloud. Christ, but he'd said it a dozen times over, and even if he hadn't, it would never be any less true.

And so Ken frowned. Then he smiled. Smiled like it was the best news he'd ever heard. "Goddamn if that isn't the best news I've ever heard," he said, refilling Salvatore's glass.


End file.
